


hold your head up high,

by ladymacdeath



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Realities, Loss, Other, Regret, kind of mother/son relationship?, two ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3401381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymacdeath/pseuds/ladymacdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she would want you to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold your head up high,

He walks across the stage, gown sweeping against the wooden floor. The camera swings in his direction as he shakes the principal’s hand. He smiles brightly, beaming with pride. He scans the auditorium crowd, catching sight of blonde hair. She looks at him through glassy eyes, flashing a wide grin. 

He walks across the stage, stopping to shake the principal’s hand. He tries to smile, but the lights are too bright.  _I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy_ runs through his mind. He looks out at the crowd for a familiar face.Hethinks he recognizes her by the exit, but the woman disappears out of the frame. He grips the diploma in his hand.

She shuts the trunk of the car as he lugs out the last box. He is sweating through a thin layer of white fabric. He pushes the hair out of his eyes as he balances the box with one hand.  _Don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye out for the cute boys,_  she says.  _For me or for you?,_  he grunts as he walks into the dorm building. She looks at the empty car and feels a tiny pang in her heart. 

He throws the last box on his dorm room floor, sighing heavily with relief. He opens the window, letting the breeze fill the hot room. He tears one of the boxes, labelled “writings”, pulling out a map. Carefully, he tapes it up on the ceiling above his bed. Later, his new roommate asks him what the thumbtacks mean. He doesn't answer. 

He meets a boy in college, behind the stacks of the gender studies section of the university’s library. He tells him that he’s majoring in biology and minoring in sexuality. He says,  _That’s a strange combination._  And then adds,  _I used to work in a sex shop._ The boy laughs. He grins.

He meets a boy in college, behind the stacks of the gender studies section of the university’s library. He mentions it to her on the phone that night. She recognizes the name, but keeps it to herself. The boy disappears the following week. 

He joins the university’s newspaper, eventually landing himself a coveted assignment interviewing Illinois’ most controversial politician. He calls her, speaking excitedly as he rushes to his next class.  _Is he cute?_ He smiles to himself and rolls his eyes. Three weeks later, he sends her a copy. She cuts his article out and hangs it on the fridge. 

He joins the university’s newspaper, eventually landing himself a coveted assignment interviewing Illinois’ most controversial politician. It reminds him of a story he wrote in high school, something about a redhead and butterflies. An uneasiness rumbles in his stomach and he quickly pushes away the thought. 

Winter break comes, and snow replaces the grassy knolls. He surprises her as she’s putting up the Christmas tree. She pours him hot chocolate and he grabs the ornaments from the top shelf, the sounds of Michael Buble filling the house. She sings along, her reindeer headband jingling with every shake of her head. 

Winter break comes, and snow replaces the grassy knolls. He stays in his dorm room, drinking coffee and humming holiday tunes. His roommate invites him to stay with his family, but he declines the offer. His cousin from Ohio sends him a gift, a black, glossy typewriter. He spends Christmas day writing, the silence of the room overshadowed by the loud clacking of the keys. 

She writes him a letter. " _Dear Sam_ ," it begins. It is decorated with scrawls and scratch marks, things that she took back, things that she meant to say. He reads it hurriedly, skimming through words like, " _vampires"_ , " _demons"_ , and " _slayers"_. He calls her on the phone and they have a long discussion. 

The boy sends him a letter, crisp and white. He opens it with the same care as a dissection. It says “ _Dear Sam,_ ”. He immediately crumples the paper in his hand and lies on his bed, looking up at the map with weary eyes. 

He writes a piece for Politico, which lands him an interview with The Huffington Post. He is waiting in the room, anxiously flipping through pages of a magazine. He is strangely reminded of the time he interviewed for the editorship in high school.His mouth turns upward at the memory. His cell phone lights up in his lap.  _Good luck!!! xx_

He writes a piece for Politico, which lands him an interview with The Huffington Post.  _Have you ever started an investigation only to find a dead end?_ , the man asks. He pauses, hesitating. Brief memories flash across his mind, a woman’s contorted face, stakes and cemeteries, blood on the walls… The man’s expectant face takes him back to consciousness.  _Yes, my second year of college…_

The pianist begins to play the wedding melody, the guests turning to glance at him. He walks down the aisle, sees his groom, smile blinding. He takes a deep breath. Exhales. She squeezes his arm, tears gathering in her eyes. He relaxes beside her.  _Thank you._

The pianist begins to play the wedding melody, the guests turning to glance at him. He walks down the aisle, sees his groom, smile blinding. His aunt drags slowly beside him, patting his arm gently.  _Is there someone missing?_  She looks at him, confused. He shakes the thought out of his mind. 

_Grandma!_  The little girl squeals, skipping to jump into her arms. She picks her up, twirls around, curls bouncing in the air. He enters through the backyard door. He chuckles softly at the sight and goes to hug her. His husband follows shortly after. She places the little girl gently on the ground, who runs immediately to clutch her father’s leg. She smiles at the picture.

_Daddy!_  The little girl squeals, skipping to jump into his arms.  _What do you have there, sweetheart?_  She shows off her toothless grin, shoving a bunch of flowers into his nose. He looks at them, soft blue petals tickling his cheek.  _Forget me not._  

He reaches for the lamp light, switching it off. His husband earmarks the novel he’s reading, setting down his glasses and pulling up the covers.  _She’s taking care of the kids tomorrow, right?_ He nods.  _What would we do without her?_ He snorts.  _Have kids who don't ask their parents what vibrators are at age four._  He husband lets out a laugh, leaning over to kiss him goodnight.  

His husband catches him in his office, staring at the map attached to the wall opposite his desk. He hears a stir, sighs, closes his eyes tight. His husband walks over to him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.  _I think it's time to take it down._ He traces a finger over the grid lines and red thumbtacks, embedded with years of obsession and loneliness. He rolls up the paper carefully, placing it in a dark corner of the attic. His husband buys him a vase of blue flowers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Product of an original character created by a Buffy RP that my friend and I were a part of. This fic is for her. (Best when listening to Pompeii by Bear's Den and About Today by The National.)


End file.
